


In Which Dualscar Realizes his Kismesisitude with the Psiioniic is Polluted with Pity

by thegreatgayjatsby



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Black cuddling is totally a thing, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Cigarettes and sopor/alcohol use, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, M/M, Psionicplay, Quadrant Confusion, They're both assholes, babies basking in an afterglow, possible vacillations from black to red
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:42:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1400143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatgayjatsby/pseuds/thegreatgayjatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dualscar Ampora, and you may be fucked up, but at least, so is your kismesis.</p><p>(Dual and Psii cuddle after pailing because yes, black-cuddling is a thing, and no, Dualscar doesn't want to leave Psii's shitty little revolution tent.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Dualscar Realizes his Kismesisitude with the Psiioniic is Polluted with Pity

**Author's Note:**

> i really really think these two need more love

Your name is Dualscar Ampora, and you are so fucked up. A cigarette dangles from your chapped, kiss-swollen lips, and shitty six-pack sopor tickles your throat as it sluices down. You’re floating not unpleasantly, your pan drifting through noncommittal thoughts and nonsensical concerns as you stare at the ceiling.

You take a moment and set the cup of sopor aside before turning to gaze at the lanky heap curled up on the cot beside you. Snorting gently, you exhale, blowing smoke out at him just to piss him off.

Your kismesis shifts at your side, tearing your gaze from the single pole running along the seam of the tent’s arch and back to him. He stares at you, unblinking for a moment, his bicolored eyes locked on your face.

He should really stop being so damn pitiable, you muse, taking a long drag from your cigarette. He coughs exaggeratedly and you lazily swat at his shoulder when he moves closer regardless, seeking warmth.

You’re not quite sure why he thinks cuddling you will offer any heat or comfort, as your a seadweller- an applicable excuse for both situations, you think- and he has no reason to be snuggling his kismesis. You flick the ashes of your cigarette onto the caked dirt that forms the floor of the tent and extinguish it by grinding it against the already soiled map-table and nestle back anyways.

He sighs softly, head pillowed against your upper arm, his one of his four hours nicking your flesh. You chirr softly at him, body still alight and almost oversensitive from his psionics, which had been all over and inside you only moments previous.

You briefly think you should clean up, head to the troll’s excuse for an abolitionblock and wash your gills out at least. He’s had his bifurcated tongue in between the slits recently, drooling all sorts of lowblood diseases probably.

You decide against it the moment his hand comes in contact with your broad chest, fingers lingering over your blood-pusher. You turn to briefly mouth the tip of his horn before closing your eyes and smiling a little.

You are so fucked up, but at least he is, too.


End file.
